Last Testament of the Lost
by JGordonRoss
Summary: A melancholy Arkham student discovers eldritch forces at work in the Arkahm Sanitorium


**Last Testament of the Lost**

by J. Gordon Ross

_September 2010_

(3254 Words)

_April 20th, 1909_

They have given me one hour to record my thoughts. Whether this be mercy or mockery, I know not. It seems at this point to be a matter of perspective and to their vision I cannot speak. They are among us and yet beyond us.

My name, my true name, the name given to me by my mother on the day of my birth is Henry Davis Johnstone. Though by the time this is read there will be no memory of my being. And despite this note being written behind the ancient granite walls of Arkham Sanitarium believe that its author is not mad!

I was mad. Even from birth I was stricken with a distinct melancholia, which puzzled doctors and strained the frail spirits of my parents. As I grew, the condition only worsened and my days as a schoolboy were marked with despondency and torpor. A fog of weariness touched all who came near and people hastily learned to avoid my influence.

When it came time for me to move to higher education my father insisted I attend the local school, Miskatonic University, I suspect more out of frugality than to keep me near by need of fondness. My days as a college man were fraught with abject isolation. No field of study could hold my attention and no sport nor society could capture my interest. I had no friends and certainly no prospects for marriage.

It came to pass that while arriving late to lecture on English literature of the sixteenth century I took the notice of a pompous and sarcastic professor. Seeing my black dress and sullen expression, he raised his arms like a dramatist and pronounced, 'Why look, class! Look at this young agelast. It be Hamlet the Dane, here in the flesh. Tell me, Prince, hast thou yet taken thy revenge 'gainst thy lecherous uncle Claudius?"

The students erupted in vexatious laughter. I was overcome, and I speedily exited the hall in search of some well-shadowed place. From then on, my peers knew me as Hamlet and murmured to each other in jest whenever I passed.

I cannot recall the moment when my affliction grew from a simple eccentricity into a state of illness. The shift was slow and subtle. At the end of my second year at Miskatonic, the student liaison sat with me and I was informed that due to my abysmal student record and obvious aprosexia I was not welcome to attend the institute next semester. The only response I could muster was an impotent shrug. The news was not shocking, though I had desperately wished my case and I might escape the notice of the office staff. With a feeble groan, I lifted myself from my seat and began the way back to my father's house. The journey was hardly laborious for we lived on Parsonage Street, within two miles of the school. But on that day I was drowned with fatigue. My legs were young and strong but I hadn't the volition to operate them.

A schoolfellow found me the following afternoon lying in the shade of an apple tree. My memory of this event is vague and distant, suffering from the fugue in which I was held. The student who came to my aid (his name eludes me) was a graduate student in the competitive and arduous field of theoretical physics and had been witness to more than one mental lapse in his peers. He recognized my condition immediately and brought me directly to the college's school of psychology.

It took no more than a moment for those learned men to spot the illness in my mind. A simple exchange determined the path of my life for the next six years. I was bound for extended occupancy at Arkham Sanitarium.

There are some who fear the sanatorium. One can hardly forget tales of Bedlam or Goya's images of poor idiots in torment. No doubt, such madhouses exist where callous professionals employ bizarre and deleterious procedures on the hapless lunatics in their care. But I found my hospital to be a different experience entirely. Here was a sanctum in the old tradition where mercy to the sick was put above the aggressive meddling of the analysts. This was my habernacle. My even disposition and independence swiftly earned me friends among the staff. And in the company of disruptive neurotics, my draining influence was taken as a blessing.

Not to say I was left deserted - far from it. The doctors prescribed various laetificants, exposure to direct sunlight, massage, mineral baths, invigorating emollients and agents to thicken the blood. And as each therapy failed, as they all failed, they did not lose heart. They patiently and methodically exhausted every curative known to science.

I was neither bitter at medicine's inability to improve my condition nor at fortune for my having been born so feeble of will. Does a slug look to the gleeful hummingbird with envy? I was born a slug and I say it does not.

As you might imagine, time passed uneventfully. Now and then, a doctor might remark that some advancement had been made in the medical community that might make the difference in my case. We would attempt the regimen and it would eventually prove ineffective. This continued for five long years until the arrival of the two men who led me to this fate. Two men who, due to my impending executioners, never existed.

The first was Professor Adam Wayland Erikson, a graduate of Bute Medical School and honoured fellow of the Royal College of Physicians who served a lengthy internship under renowned patient advocate Sir John Charles Bucknill. I presume Dr. Bucknill still exists in memory. But how can I know? Maybe my life has descended into phantasm and this account is worthless. Or perhaps they will sweep this note into oblivion with the rest of my existence.

That is enough of that. I have much to record and time is short. Suffice it to say that on a tour of American asylums Dr. Erikson was charmed and delighted by Arkham's facilities and benevolent ideology. He immediately appealed for a position at the institute and was accepted heartily.

The good doctor brought with him the second man I know to be lost. Introduced to me as Mr. Sean Jones, a Welshman who was afflicted with mental disturbances reportedly so peculiar that Dr. Erikson devoted his life to the case. Sean's family had spent the better part of the Georgian Era in the vilest but most lucrative acts of piracy. He had been born into substantial wealth but with such a nefarious family reputation that it was difficult to enjoy.

As we were housed in rooms across the hall, were of similar age, and because we both understood what it was to be an outsider, Mr. Jones and I became quick friends. And that connection proved to be mutually beneficial. Whereas I was bound by lethargy, half-dead as some described me, my comrade was bursting with energy, a tireless maelstrom of activity. I found his company energizing and to him I was a source of calmness and rest.

He confided in me, overflowing with stories of his ancestors' terrible deeds and of their pact with dark powers hidden to mankind by the ocean's depths. All sailors know to respect the guiding stars but only a few are privy to their secrets. Sean relayed to me in great detail the lessons in sabaism taught to him by his father. He spoke of worlds beyond where abnormous creatures harnessed dark energies so powerful that their influence could be felt here on earth. This was why, he claimed, he had caught the interest of Dr. Erikson. Not for his psychopathology but for the eldritch wisdom he had acquired in his life as a degenerate mystic.

Though Sean's charisma tempted me to believe him, his story was too fantastic to trust even the smallest detail. He was, after all, a madman. I continued to listen with interest but I was convinced I was audience to an elaborate fiction.

Then it came that I was sitting with Dr. Erikson for a monthly interview and assessment. The doctor noted that I had been spending much of my time speaking with Sean and he inquired into the nature of our conversations. At first, I hesitated. My instinct was to misreport the wild stories out of loyalty to my friend. But reason led me to deduce that candour would best serve his treatment. I explained all I understood of what I had been told as precisely as I could.

Erikson simply nodded and when I had finished he prepared for himself a cigarette.

"He's a genius, you know," he said.

I was astounded. It felt as if the floor was shifting beneath me.

He continued: "Sometime ago, I came across an article in the Journal of Mental Science entitled _Oneiromancy as an Effect of Ferromagnetic Consequence_. It was the most brilliant work I had ever seen. And it was submitted anonymously. I wanted desperately to contact the master behind the work but there were almost no leads."

The doctor stared at the burning tip of his cigarette. I glanced about the room nervously.

"Sean was the author?" I asked.

"It took me four years to find him. I followed a collection of academic treasures: medical research, historical treatises, mathematical proofs - even an English translation of the infamous Liber Damnatus. At the last, I bribed a courier to give up his secret employer. When he directed me to Denbigh Asylum, I assumed I'd find my scholar amidst the staff. But there he was, locked away and heavily sedated. He had directed all of that magnificent research through intermediaries from a tiny cell. I swore at that moment both to heal him and learn from him."

I couldn't have been more shocked. This tale seemed even less plausible than Sean's wild accounts. A fear took me. I suspected that I had finally crossed into a realm of complete madness and unreality. But the doctor was not finished with me.

"Henry, I believe Sean and I have made a breakthrough. It's a radical procedure involving the surgical insertion of several rare earth magnets directly into the tissue of the brain. I have practised the operation on various animals and I am confident the procedure is sound. It follows logically that I begin human trials. The professionally responsible course of action would be to bring my findings to a university, but the theory behind our technique is so advanced it may take decades before our science is peer-approved. And the mystical nature of some of our discoveries will be easy sport for sceptics.

Sean demands I perform the surgery on him. But you see, his mind, his metaphysical insight, is too precious to be lost to an experimental procedure. I am asking you, and it is a great deal to ask, to undergo the operation as a safety trial."

My heart sank. I loved knowledge and cared for my friend. But surely this was insanity of the most outlandish variety.

I inquired, "What effect would a procedure designed for Sean's brain have on my own?"

"The operation would be adapted to suit your needs. Whereas Sean requires limiting and pacification, you need to be energized or awakened. It's a simple question of placing the magnets within different structures of the brain. Sean will determine the specifics."

"So this might possibly cure me?" I asked.

"If our theories hold true you will see a miraculous increase in function. There is also a high risk that you will not survive."

I could sense the doctor's disappointment even before I spoke.

"I may be mad, but I have no wish to die. And this notion of health you offer is utterly alien to me. Who would be this happy man wearing my skin?"

Erikson replied, "I am not ass enough to believe you enjoy your present condition."

"I accept my state of being and, more to the point, I identify with this way of life. This may be pitiful but it is my way. I refuse and that is my final word."

He dismissed me with an understanding nod and I retired to the mineral baths. Their placid relaxation quickly blent away thoughts of experimental surgery. Before long, I could barely recall our conversation and considered the matter dealt with.

Over the following week, I heard nothing of the subject. Sean kept away from me, I supposed to keep his dissatisfaction from affecting our friendship. I gave him a wide berth, confident he would surmount these feelings and soon all would be as it was. With time, Dr. Erikson's procedure would be approved by the medical community and he would have his cranial magnets.

It was a cold and stirless night when he came to me. I was in my bed lost in dream when I was jerked awake. A drop of icy fluid trickled with precision into the canal of my ear. I flung myself from the bed in a chaotic motion. There, sitting peacefully, was Sean, his hands buried in the pockets of a heavy coat. I stood in puzzlement for on his face I saw neither malevolence nor jest. Indeed, the man before me was a portrait of repose.

"You will undergo the surgery," he said, looking blankly at the wall.

It took me a moment to gather an answer. His disposition was so alien, his aspect so void.

"I will not. You are a dear friend, but dearer to me is my life."

I had played tennis with Sean and I had run with him. To that point, I thought I possessed an understanding of his physical abilities. He was a slight man, no doubt the product of his overactive metabolism. But the speed with which he captured me and the strength with which he held his ether rag over my nose and mouth were simply astounding. I held my breath as best I could, but there was no escape. He had me locked like a master wrestler with an intensity reserved for the mad.

As I faded, he spoke to me: "The Powers mock me for having been born a mortal of an insignificant species. They bar me from the Dreamlands and laugh at my ambitions. But I know my power and I know my worth. I promise you, my friend, you shall be cured and soon after, I shall be delivered my mind in full. The knowledge of Pnakotus will I take and it shall lead me to Kadath in the Cold Waste. When I have conquered there the Gods will be compelled to honour me with a place in the Court of Azathoth at the centre of all things."

I awoke in the sanatorium's infirmary, my head aching and bandaged like a mummy. All things seemed distant and unreal, no doubt from the powerful opiates they administered to me. Dr. Erikson came to observe later on that first day of my awakening. In my heart, I wished to cry out that he was a ruthless butcher, but in my state I did not possess the power of speech. And so I lay dazedly while he prodded at me with arcane devices. I even heard him remark that I was progressing well and that he was now confident enough to operate on Jones. The only action I could muster was a low groan.

Soon after the doctor left, darkness took me and I slept for two more days. When I awoke on that third day it was to an awakening beyond that which any man before has had. For no one before me could have leapt from the pure anhedonia in which I was lost into the ripe fullness of living wonder I now experience. Still unconscious, I rose from my bed and wandered into the being of this new existence. It wasn't until a nurse found me mumbling in the garden that I finally awoke in full. Her grip on my arm was tight and yet wondrous, the pressure of each of her digits a new universe of interest. I could feel the twist and sway of every hair on my body. And what is more, I could concentrate and remember their feeling. For the first time in all my life, I began to understand what it was to be alive. Still in that transcendent moment, I remembered the awful state of things.

"Where is Sean?" I asked.

"Wanted to wish your friend luck, did you? I'm sorry, Henry, you just missed him. He entered surgery a few minutes ago."

I rushed away at that second, for the clarity offered me by my newfound mind led me to dark conclusions. Sean Jones was not undergoing this surgery to alleviate madness but to unleash the full psychic potential of his diseased mind! What horrific consequences this might have on mankind I could not say. It seemed entirely possible that he could alter the shape of time and space not only in this universe but also beyond.

I dashed through the halls of the sanatorium to the operating theatre and burst in.

It appears my time has almost run out. I must be brief. This situation suits me fine as human language fails in describing what occurred next.

In the operating room, I found Dr. Erikson, Sean and three humanoid figures caught in conversation. The creatures were uniformly tall, at least six feet, and utterly, completely featureless. They were smooth and indistinct, like matte cloth, and were completely motionless. Though they did not speak, I could feel their intelligence within the recesses of my own mind. They exuded no mood, feeling or character that I could discern but the presence of their psyches was profoundly apparent. No sooner had I entered than Sean and the doctor faded from existence. Right before my eyes, they shifted from being to nothingness in a slow gradient. I turned to run.

"Do not flee," said a voice that came from, or perhaps through, one of the alien figures.

"What have you done?" I asked.

"The one had designs against one of our realities, the other an unwitting accomplice. They were, are, and ever shall be no more. To this end you too shall pass."

My chest heaved with panic. Unlike any other time in my memory, I did not doubt my senses in this circumstance. These beings are truer than what sane men call reality. They are beyond it.

And I said, "I've done nothing wrong."

"Your mind has been awoken. This will not be tolerated. The mere fact that you are capable of this exchange means you must be undone."

I argued with those beings, but to no avail. We spent a great deal of time in communication and I have learned things I thought no man would ever discover. And woe befalls me for having this knowledge. I haven't even the means to record here the details. There simply are no words.

They sent me here to my room with the specific instruction to compose a note detailing the situation. I cannot guess their intent.

I see by my bedside clock that my time is short. All that remains, I guess, is to bestow some moral on my tale.

Perhaps sometime in the future a reader is thinking, "Was your restoration worth the fate that befell you?"

To him, I can only reply that exp

[note ends]


End file.
